


Protocol

by maebyrutherford (maeberutherford)



Series: The Right Hand [10]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Childhood Friends, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-26 22:09:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5022346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maeberutherford/pseuds/maebyrutherford
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the Right Hand series: After the Inquisitor breaks his heart, Cullen tries to move on by serving as Cassandra’s Right Hand.</p><p>Cullen and Sylvie are confronted by his past in Kirkwall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Protocol

**Author's Note:**

> I will fully admit that I have no idea how one travels between Hightown, Lowtown etc. or how far apart they are so I left that ambiguous. This gets a little dark but it seemed unrealistic not to include something like this. Let me know what you think!

Varric hadn’t been overly apologetic about his meddling - and he did indeed meddle, at Cassandra’s insistence - since everything had turned out well in the end. According to him, Sylvie had been “floating through the kitchen” the morning after, satisfying the Viscount and making Cullen smile to himself at the thought. Still, he detested interference in his personal life and would be having some very firm words with his dear friend the Divine.

 

While he changed out of his light armor into a dress tunic, doublet and trousers, snippets of their evening peppered his thoughts, each one bringing small blooms of warmth to his chest. Roast pheasant and vegetables, simple ingredients rendered exquisite in their preparation. Laughter, so much laughter his face had been sore in the morning. The odd squealing noise she’d made when he’d taken the first bite of her warm apple tart topped with fresh cream, Y _ou look like you just bedded a woman!_ , the intense blushing that followed. The near constant sips of water and tea - no wine this time around - after drying out his mouth from talking more than he had in months, maybe even years. The scent of her hair when they hugged goodnight, soap mingled with baked fruit and herbs. 

 

He felt a bloom of a different sort when he recalled what he’d done in his bed afterward, imagining being _with_ her, not once thinking of Tara.

 

Small victories.

 

Cullen realized he was staring at the kitchen bell. She’d no doubt be in the thick of preparing dinner with her staff and probably shouldn’t be disturbed. And yet the thought of just sitting here passing the time without Sylvie seemed like a foolish waste.

He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her all day. At the chantry service and meetings he’d wondered what her opinion would be on whatever was being said, or if she’d like that particular hymn, or if she’d have thought that one cleric’s voice was as comical as he did.

He didn’t know what would happen after he left Kirkwall, hadn’t thought that far ahead, but he was sure he didn’t want to squander any more time than he already had since the ball.

The large double-doors to the kitchen were open and he peered in, feeling very much like an invader in a strange land. He stepped in next to a tall rack and surveyed the controlled chaos; cooks moving to and fro with large pots, vegetables frantically being chopped and swept into pans, steam rising from the stove, and the smell of something roasting in the oven. Nobody seemed to notice him.

Orders were being barked out by a voice both famiiar and foreign.

“Those will need to be browned, but not too dark. Remember what I taught you, you’ll need to watch it closely or else the entire batch is ruined. Got it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Eloise! Has the bread gone in yet?”

“Yes, just put it in.”

“That’s my girl. Nice work everyone, now keep it up.”

 

The elves and women that had been surrounding a large counter in the center of the room cleared off to reveal Sylvie, her hair tied up off her neck and wrapped, staring down an enormous bowl of something very thick and whipping it into submission. Rolled-up sleeves revealed surprisingly strong arms that flexed as she turned the whisk with an unforgiving speed. 

 

Cullen observed her in action for as long as he could. She commanded her staff with authority, firmly but not cruelly, giving praise when earned, all the while hustling herself, her elegant hands working food and tools and tasting this and that as she moved between stations, her expression one of concentrated dedication. Everyone moved through the room as if they were in a tightly choreographed dance, gracefully bobbing and weaving around obstacles and each other, all knowing what to do and when to do it.

 

His chest swelled with an odd sort of pride, seeing how proficient she was at her job. This wasn’t entirely unlike running drills.

After a time someone noticed him lurking in the corner. The young man stopped and gawked at him with a pile of dirty dishes in hand.

“Pardon me, I’m here to see Miss Forester.”

A very large older woman shuffled over. “Close your mouth, boy. Ain’t you never seen a pretty man before?” She gave Cullen a look that said _Kids today, am I right?_ before shouting across the room. “Chef, you’ve got a visitor!”

The entire kitchen looked up at him, and he was struck at how much it looked like a Haste spell had been cast on him and everyone else had slowed almost to a halt. Instantly he felt guilty for barging in unannounced. His hand reflexively went to the back of his neck and he waved lamely at Sylvie with the other.

“Moira, take over, will you?” She removed her apron and walked over to Cullen. “Everyone, back to work!” The staff resumed their activity in a flurry of whispers and supressed titters.

“Rutherford, what brings you here?” The smile was tight, no doubt she was still in work mode. It was a state Cullen was all too familiar with.

 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come. You’re busy.” He was already backing toward the door.

The smile relaxed. “No, it’s all right. Moira can handle things. Hard part is over, now it’s mostly just letting things cook. I can spare a little time.”

“If you’re sure.”

Someone came bursting into the kitchen. “Miss Forester, I apologize but there was an incorrect headcount for dinner. We’ll need to add more servings to the meal.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem, we always make extra. How many?”

“Thirty.”

“Thirty?” she repeated incredulously. “How could it have been that far off? I can make the sides work but I don’t have enough fish!”

“I’m very sorry, I don’t know how it happened, but the guests _are_ coming. I came as soon as I became aware of the error.” The assistant scurried off.

“Shit!” She did a small turn in front of Cullen.

“Should I go, or is there something I can do to help?” he asked.

“No. I’ll just have to run out and get more food. It’s our only option.”

“Can’t you send one of your people?”

She shook her head. “It’s better if I do it. I’ll have to sweet talk the fishmonger into re-opening his shop, and he knows me. And if he doesn’t have any fish left I’ll have to do the same with the butcher.” She looked at him. “Want to come along?”

 

“Me? Are you sure I won’t just get in the way?”

 

“Cullen, we’re just buying food. Besides, I could use an extra pair of hands to carry it all back. So how about it? Up for an exciting adventure of begging to buy the days-end scraps at inflated prices?” 

 

He clasped his hands behind his back. “That’s actually one of my favorite pastimes.”

 

“Perfect, then let’s go.” Her face lit up as they walked. “Oh, maybe with a man present they won’t gouge me as much!”

 

“I can try to look extra intimidating, if you’d like.” He puffed up his shoulders and made his best angry face, making her cackle.

 

They went to the fish market at the docks first, closed but the fishmonger lived right next door. Cullen understood why Sylvie insisted on going herself; the man clearly had a crush on her and was practically falling over himself to help, not that he could blame the man. Unfortunately it wasn’t anything fit for their needs, just bait fish and a few sad-looking crustaceans, so they made for the butcher’s house.

 

“I couldn’t help but notice you in the kitchen earlier,” Cullen said as they walked briskly through the city streets. He had gotten used to soldiers struggling to keep up or having to slow down for others in social situations, but she almost matched him stride for stride with her long legs. “I can see why you’re so sought after.”

 

“And tasting my food didn’t convince you?” she teased.

 

“You already know what I think of your cooking. But seeing you in action is different. Your total command of such a complex operation was admirable.”

 

That seemed to please her tremendously. “Thank you, Cullen. It’s not often someone understands how difficult it is to run a large kitchen. A lot of people think that just because they know how to cook, they could do what I do. It’s not just cooking food, it’s having an enormous amount of patience, doing a million different things at once and knowing how to balance being a taskmaster and a mentor, how to bring out the best in your people.”

 

“I understand completely. Not unlike commanding a small army, in some respects.”

 

“Well, I don’t know if I’d go that far. Kitchen’s far less dangerous, for one.”

 

“Perhaps, although there are almost as many weapons and fire present. And a similar risk of losing an appendage.”

 

“Hm, you have a point. Here we are.” She turned sharply and knocked on the door to, presumably, the butcher’s house. There was no answer.

 

“Shit! Someone please be home.” She knocked again more forcefully. 

 

“Just a bloody minute!” a woman’s voice called from within. Old, from the sound of it, or just exceptionally crabby.

 

After what sounded like multiple locks being undone the door opened just wide enough for a face to peer through. A middle-aged woman with a severe frown and deep lines in her forehead narrowed her eyes at Sylvie. “Who are you? What do you want?”

 

“I’m so sorry to trouble you, I’m looking for Mr. Gregory, is he in?”

 

“Who’s asking?” she spat.

 

“Forgive me - my name is Sylvie Forester. I’m the Viscount’s chef, and I buy meat from your husband. I’ve seen you in the shop but I’ve never had the pleasure.”

 

“Shop’s been closed for hours!” The door didn’t budge.

 

“Yes, I know, that’s why I’m here. There’s been a bit of an emergency and we’re short on supplies, I was hoping he could open up just for a bit, I could buy what I need and be on my way.”

 

“Like I said, my husband’s not in. I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.” She started to shut the door when Cullen stopped it.

 

“Madam, would you happen to have the key? If you could assist us the Viscount would be in your debt, and of course would be willing to pay an inconvenience fee.”

 

She looked at his hand on the door as if it were a snake, then glowered at him. “And who in the void are you?”

 

“Apologies, madam, my name is Cullen Rutherford, I’m a personal acquaintance of the chef and the Viscount. I’m also the Right Hand of the-”

 

“I know who you are.” The door and the woman’s eyes opened wide, and she stepped forward. She raised a finger to Cullen’s face, and he could see her entire body trembling.

 

“ _You_ ,” the word was pure venom, “it was you who killed my sweet Alora!”

 

Cullen took a step backward, thoroughly shocked. He’d heard that name somewhere before but couldn’t place it, couldn’t understand where this allegation was coming from. Sadly, with all the battles he’s fought, she would have to be more specific.

 

Sylvie spoke. “Mrs. Gregory, I’m sure there’s been a mistake.”

 

Gregory. 

 

_Alora Gregory._  

 

It was all Cullen could do to keep from reeling backward onto the stony ground, the name appearing in his mind clear as day, written in a neat hand on the report on his desk, the report he’d dismissed due to lack of proof, _just following protocol_. Then the name again on a different sort of report, one he’d had to sign underneath Orsino’s and Meredith’s names. Death by strangulation, investigated but no evidence, no one implicated, and life in the gallows had gone on. Bile licked at the back of his throat.

 

The woman clenched her teeth and wagged her finger at him, her rage choking her words. “We were good, we sent her to the circle like we was supposed to, and for what? They was raping my little girl and you did nothing! They killed her and you did nothing! Might as well been your prick violatin’ her, your hand wrapped ‘round her neck!”

 

Her words cut deep and he let it bleed, he had no right to get upset. He’d tried his best as Knight-Captain, but it wasn’t good enough.

 

Cullen summoned all of his inner strength to look this woman in the eye, pulling the words from a deep chasm. “You’re right. I’m so sorry.”

 

She flinched, her lip curling into a sneer. “That’s all you got to say? I’m _sorry_? Well sorry ain’t gonna bring her back to me, is it? You think you’re all high and holy now, beyond reckoning, but there’s some of us that won’t ever forget what you did, won’t ever forgive.”

 

Sylvie’s hands were on his shoulders, as gentle as her voice. “Come, let’s go.”

 

Cullen swallowed and scanned the woman’s face, trying desperately to remember anyone who resembled her at the circle, because it seemed unimaginable that he didn’t even know what Alora looked like. Someone who had suffered, who had died under his protection shouldn’t be a faceless name. At the very least he knew he would never forget her mother, or the way her rage seemed to roll over him in waves, as if she’d cast a spell.

 

“Now both of you get off my property, or I’m calling the guard! I don’t care who the fuck you are!” She disappeared behind the door and slammed it hard enough that it rattled the frame.

 

They were at the end of the street when he fully regained all his senses, Sylvie’s arm around him. He wondered if it had been there the whole time, or if her touch snapped him out of his fog. Both were plausible.

 

“Are you all right?” she asked quietly. Somehow he heard her perfectly above the din of the city, was attuned to her.

 

He thought carefully about his answer. “No. But my feelings don’t matter. She had every right to be angry.”

 

She tightened her hold. “I won’t push, but I’m here for you, if you ever want to talk about it.”

 

He looked at her, a little afraid at what he’d see, and his immediate future yawned before him. She’d be supportive now because she’s kind-hearted, maybe even feel sorry for him, but in the coming days she would avoid him, make excuses about being too busy, realizing what she was getting herself into and deciding he wasn’t worth the trouble. 

 

But that wasn’t what he saw when he looked into her eyes. It was comfort, steadfastness, reassurance. No pity, and he was relieved. 

 

Someday, he would tell her everything. About Kinloch Hold, about the Gallows, about the lyrium, all the gory details and, Maker willing, she would still be there at the end of it all. But for now they walked side by side in silence through the streets of his past, and it was enough.

 


End file.
